Sunshine, Moonlight, Boogie!
by Zacarias Aristocles Rye
Summary: As a young, delicate and sensitive child, Benedict Swann had been offered a terrible choice of roles by the world. Geek, or Gay? As he flied to Forks, the model son, diligent student, teacher's pet and students' butt monkey knew his place; it sucked. He believed Forks was his chance at a new life. It wouldn't have been a very long one if it weren't for that ravishing vampire Edwyn.
1. Journey

We often find ourselves acting in the way others expect us to act. We even redefine our desires to match what we think others expect of us.  
Take me, for example. I used to be a quiet, meek kid. I liked flowers, and poetry, and puppies. Heck, I think I might have asked Santa for a pony once, in one of those letters whose recipients are actually your parents. It was only much later that I understood wwhy, a few days later, my father took me aside and showed me alternately photos of male and female models in swimming trunks, while gazing at me intently. He seems to have been satisfied by what he saw, because he never again performed any such tests on me, nor asked me the question other teens did not hesitate to ask. Over and over.  
You gay? You a faggot? A cissy? A pansy? A wimp?  
And, well, figuratively, they weren't wrong, by their own standards. I hated violence, and I had trouble asserting myself. I didn't like getting dirty or sweaty, and I have always had a tendency to get dizzy at the sight of blood. This ruled me out of being a "normal kid". But then, what was I? One had to be labelled, belong to a tribe, know their place, and let their place be known. Given my traits, I was left to choose between "gay" and "nerd". It was an easy choice. So I did what the other kids expected. I hid behind books, and let the lack of sunlight and exercise do their job. I never managed to look actually skinny or fat like I was supposed to, but, since I let my mother dress me, I still looked the part. So I did what my parents expected. I focused on my studies, and got good grades. I was the sort who never hit back. The sort whose complaints teachers could reasonably ignore. "Kids will be kids," won't they? I was no trouble to anyone. I was a good boy. All work and no play (dad made sure I never even got to try videogames, other than edultainment). I was dull boy.  
That, I had decided, was about to change.  
And I had the perfect excuse.

* * *

"Son," mom said, not taking her eyes off the road, "are you sure you want to go to your father's?" Which was in Forks, Washington, rainiest town in the nation.  
"Yes, mom, this is what I want." I had my eyes set on the sideways. It was the middle of the afternoon, and Phoenix, Arizona, looked like it had been subjected to a yellow filter. Rusty roadsigns and dusty sidewalks were bathed in a light that left no shadows. Every flaw in that wall was obvious. Every blade of grass in the yellowing lawns was accounted for. Every scratch, every scrape, every scruffmark on every car was inescapably obvious. The brightness left no room for doubt or shadow or mystery or excitement. It was like the entire world was overexposed.  
"Anyway, mom, we're on our way to the airport. I think it's a bit too late for second guesses." _Too late to go back tooo sleeep. I've got to trust my instincts, close my eyes and leaaaaaap._  
"Son, it is never too late to go back on a bad decision!"_ You would know about that, wouldn't you?_ But she had a point. "The man can barely cook or even keep his own house clean! How ever will he take care of my beloved Benedict?" Mom and Dad and their accursed naming tastes. At least they didn't name me Elrond or Adrahil.  
"That's great, because you know I'm a fantastic cook. I bet he just can't wait to take a bite off my hot juicy apple pies."  
"I'll definitely miss those."  
"Mom, you're a married woman now. Again. So you and your husband should have some time together, and it's only natural that I go give you some space. I can't stay in Phoenix with you right now, it just ain't right."  
"Ah, but I'll miss you so much. At least make sure to call often!"  
"Every day, mom, I swear." I lied.  
She turned to look at me. With all the warmth and fuzziness in her expression, there wasn't much place for suspicion, yet she managed to cram some in anyway. Mom could send me on guilt trips without even trying. It was a knack.  
"I said I swear," and I meant it, this time. "Eyes on the road, mom." How could I let her down? It would be like kicking the biggest puppy in the world.  
"Anyway, did you make sure to have your dad find you a good gym up there at forks? All this time and money we spent over your training this summer, me and Phil," her new husband, who was a professional baseball player, and certainly had his uses, "it would be a shame if it was lost."  
"Don't worry, Mom, I'll keep it up."  
"And do make sure you keep your nutrition the way Phil taught you.  
"Don't let that distract you from your studies."  
"I wouldn't dream of it." As much as I was keen on getting rid of my weaknesses and starting a new life, good grades and academic achievement had perks that I wouldn't sacrifice just for the pleasures of the flesh, no matter how firm and well-defined it got. "A sexy mind in a sexy body", as the Greek may well have meant.

* * *

The cool thing about planes is... where to start, right? Anyway, highlights of the journey, thanks to my trusty mp3 reader, and some nutritious reading: a takeoff to the tune of Jurassic Park's Main Theme, by John Williams. Then I listened to some Journey ("Just a small-town kid, going on a lonely trip. He took the evening plane, on his way back home. A copper in a rainy town, him and his perpetual frown, he took the midnight road, waiting for his son." Yeah, the rhyming was terrible, but it's the feeling that conts).  
And then I had some light reading: "When power becomes gracious and descends into the visible — such descent I call beauty. And there is nobody from whom I want beauty as much as from you who are powerful: let your kindness be your final self-conquest. Of all evil I deem you capable: therefore I want the good from you. Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings who thought themselves good because they had no claws." Or fangs, as it were. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Whether you agreed with him or wanted to punch him, there's one thing that can be said for the Nietzsche man: he's sure to get your blood pumping.

After an uneventful landing, the meeting went something like:  
"Hi, dad."  
"Hi, son. You've grown."  
"That I have."  
"Kinda look like your mom."  
"I kinda do."  
"Any girlfriends?"  
"A man's gotta have his secrets, dad."  
"That he does." That's right. Only I can get dad to chuckle like that.

Man, I was so glad to see him, I could barely refrain from hugging him then and there. But he'd never been the type for public displays of affection, and I respected that.  
After a while driving in silence, a thought occurred to me. Without a word, I plugged my casette adapter into his car's music player.  
Soon thereafter, we were both singing like idiots.  
"You're at your best when when the goin' gets ROUGH, you've been put to the test, but it's NEVER enough, YOU GOT THE TOUCH!  
YOU GOT THE POWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"  
For a moment, I was six again, and he was ten years younger, and it was like we were back in the living room, watching those videotapes, which we'd watched together and bonded over. He'd thought the Transformers would distract me from puppies and flowers, and he was right. This soon extended into mechanics, and we developed a whole microculture around cars and other vehicles. He'd also thought they'd make me manlier: mixed results, there.  
It was a bit manipulative of me, I'll admit that much. It was also, unnecessary: I'm sure I had Daddy in my pocket by default, given how protective and doting he was, in his own way. Still, no reason not to make sure the man under whose roof I'd live didn't like me as much as possible.  
First, him. Then, the school. And, who knows, someday, maybe THE WORLD.

* * *

Time stopped, as I gazed, dumb struck, at the AMAZING 1950s or 60s Chevrolet truck he'd bought me. This. Beauty. It would be my. Very. First. Car.  
Time flowed again, as tears went down from my eyes.  
"So I guess you don't like it." my father surmised after a while, trying to hide his disappointment and failing, badly. "I should have known. I'll return it."  
"DON'T YOU DARE!" I jumped. "THIS CAR IS MINE! MINE AND MINE ALONE! GEDDAWAY FRUM MAH PRUHPERTY!"  
"So you do like it?" Aw, dad could be adorable sometimes.  
"From now on, the only way YOU get to touch my Princess Muscle is with a WARRANT!"  
"Princess Muscle?"  
"That's her name from now on." I affirmed. Then, to the truck, in my best twirling mustache villain impression, "Come hither, my proud beauty, let us see what mysteries you hide underneath all this red." Then, to my dad again, "What time is it?"  
"Iiiiiit's Ratchet time!" Like I said, microculture!

Ah, tonight was bright! But tomorrow would be even brighter! Forks, here I come!


	2. Morton's Forks

Muscle Princess, rock out!

Oh, this truck was bad. When it came out of the factory, the workers all gathered, to see this piece of joy, and the headmeister told them to leave it alone. He could already tell, it was bad to the bone.

Oh, the pure roaring beat of that motor. Oh, the mileage. The cloud of burnt pain it expiated every time it was turned on, or made to accelerate.

And it was slow. Stable. A patient machine. A manly beast, that could not, would not move aside for anyone or anything.

It laughed at Hummers and looked down upon Suburbans. This vehicle was so far beneath urban or sub-urban, it curved right back into super-urban. I swear, the only thing beyond that would have been an actual semi, or a large bus.

It was a slow, heavy machine with a smogful propensity; in my inexperienced hands, the fear and loathing of the other drivers was palpable. I behaved extra-carefully when approaching the grounds; I did not wish to antagonize my fellow classmates... not until I at least knew who it was safe to antagonize.

Speaking of which, as I approached the school's parking lot, I noticed, among the many cheap and antiquated cars that are the high-schooler's fare, an entire row of luxury european cars that stuck out like a sore thumb. I had a feeling I wouldn't have to ask about the owners of those.

As I walked out the car, the person who'd just parked next to me saluted me warmly, "Hello there. You must be New."  
Was that a capital N I head? "Ineed I am New, but you may call me Benedict instead. How shall I call you, my upperclassman? You are an upperclassman, aren't you?"

"I am. Call me Erika. Truly, Benedict, you have the most appropriate name, given the circumstances." Was she calling my Muscle Princess cumbersome? Such an affront required swift retaliation!

I walked to her, and mockingly bowed. "True. I am, after all," and I picked her hand, smooth, "blessed to meet one charming such as you," smooch, "on such a charming day."_ Now fall before the might of my gaze, you who (probably) dared to mock my Muscle Princess._

She refused to sell it. "Okay, kid, you're taking it too far. Stop." Well _that_ was a cold shower. Then she smiled warmly, "You're Charlie Swann's son, ain't ya? You should be proud of your dad."

_Oh, but who wouldn't be!_ "I am."

"You're more handsome than I expected. More outgoing, too."

_My appearance is the result of a careful diet, months of extenuating training, and the expressions worn by an intellectual. My personality is the result of a deliberate effort to reach out to others, and end my years of isolation._ "I guess I take after my mom."

"You know, just because I asked you to stop acting like you're on a stage doesn't mean you have to hold everything back and shift into dullard mode."

I beamed. "But isn't the whole world a stage? And wouldn't such a long performance, a lifetime, be a reason to act dull, to hide in a scabbard, until it is time to be sharp and swift?"

She burst out laughing. It was a warm laugh.

"Man, you would have loved Mr. Shuemacher. He left, now, but back when he was here he started out the most amazing theater club. No-one believed in them, at first, but, year after year, they changed the school's culture to the core. You'll fit right in." _Oh joy! Oh wonder!_ Oh crap! It was too good to be true.

"So what's the catch?"

"Well, the best stars of last year have graduated, and everyone is out talent-hunting. You show some promise. The drama club's schedule is quite intense-"

"-and it might interfere with my studies," I concluded, gravely.

What to do... This was the sort of time where one needs to stop, look ahead into the foggy reaches of the future, and ponder which of the paths of the crossroads one should take... such momentous, life-changing choices...

"I know you want to think about what you're going to do right now and how it will affect your entire life, especially given the penchant for theatricality you've just shown, but you've just been damned by the bell. Would you like some help getting to class?"

I was still pensive.

"...Yes, please."

She laughed heartily.

"Then get a _move_ on!"


	3. In Plain Sight

"I humbly apologize if I am merely stating the obvious, but is it known for a fact that these people over there are human, as such?" We were sitting for lunch, me, Erika, and a few others, and I had noticed, in the far corner of the room, a strangely isolated group of youth.

The first thing one noticed about them was, they were inhumanly, mind-numbingly beautiful, even the guys, no, especially the guys. No man, no matter how well-born, well-raised, well-fed, or well-f**ked they be, should look so harmonious. You post a photo of someone like that on the Internets, and the first comment you'll get will be a sarcastic "seems legit." This didn't just look 'shopped, it looked painted, by a Renaissance artist, as a study on the theme "Angels Among Men"! Me, envious? Why should I be? It's not like I haven't just spent four months feverishly working on my outward appearance.

The second thing you noticed was their apparent wealth. I didn't know what brands they were using, or what hairdresser they all went to, but it looked like the sort of clothes that went beyond the merely expensive ("I have money! Acknowledge this fact!") and into the territory of that unassuming modesty that only those who have been comfortable with wealth for a long time can display ("Yes, I do have money, and I know you know this, but let's not make a fuss about it, shall we?").

Well, at least I could make a pretty good guess on who the owners of the nice sedans I saw at the entry were.

The third thing you noticed about them is how socially isolated they were. It's not just that they did not mix with their neighbors: they didn't even spare them a glance. Nothing in their body language even hinted at the acknowledgement of people outside of their small circle.

"So, are they vampires, or succubi, or golems, or _what?_" I insisted.

"Well, one of them is called Emeth," Michaella said.

"Aha! The Golem of Prague is among us!" Erika picked up.

"Actually, It's Emmet," Angelo chuckled. "Emmett Cullen, the bear-like brunette. The handsome, tall, bronze-haired girl is Edwyn Cullen. The handsome blonde boy with the curls is Ambrose Hale, and his sister, Hesper Hale, is the handsome blonde girl. The one kid who looks like a happy, healthy Edward Cissorhands is Ulysse Cullen. The Cullens are blood brothers, the Hale kids were adopted."

"Well, that's the official story, at least." Erika specified.

What was she insinuating? I... oh. Yes. That way they had of being aware of each other. The Hale kids seemed... close.

I took a bass voice and did my best attempt at an RP accent, "Do you have any evidence whatsoever to justify promoting an alternate hypothesis to our attention?"

"As usual, Benedict, you see but you do not _observe," _she easily countered, "There is nothing but what is in plain sight of all... or not, as it were."

"What do you mean?"

"In the rare occasions where it gets sunny here, they skip class and go trekking with their parents," Michaella said, a tad despondent.

I mock-panicked, mimicking with my hand some tiny predator, eating me alive: "Envy, what are you doing? Envy! Stahp!"

That got a laugh.

Maybe they noticed we were talking about them, despite their affected lack of interest. Surely, they must have, our glances barely even attempted to be discreet. Come to think of it, we _were_ being rather rude. Whatever the case may be, on a cue from the one named Ulysse, they all casually rose from their table, dropped the (seemingly untouched) food where it belonged, and left the room.

Soon thereafter, for a precious few minutes, a blazing sun shone through the windows of the cafeteria.


	4. In The Flesh

It was time for biology class. It would be an understatement to say that I was dearly anticipating this. Oh, I was possibly chomping at the bit. I head we'd get to play with microscopes. We'd probably watch cells divide and use awesomesauce chemicals to dress all the bacteria in pimpin' purple and make those stone-cold mothers dance and shift and writhe under the spotlight. Fun was going to be had, for sure.

Well, that was the plan, at any rate.

As it turns out, the lab tables could only hold one pair at a time. There was only one free chair left; I was expected to share the table with the one person who had worked by herself until now.

That would be Edwyn Cullen.

As I approached her, I realized it was time for a reassessment. When I had first seen her from afar, in the cafeteria, I had found her stunning. In person, she was...

She was...

In retrospect, many actions would have been appropriate. I could have wept. I could have started singing about where that babe came from and how she had know I needed her. I could have removed my shirt and played "Careless Whisper" for Air Saxophone, in sexy sharp. I could have simply asked the girl her name and her astrological sign. Instead, all that came out was a barely whispered: "Hello."

She was such, that I could not even bear to look at her.

She did not reply. Worse than that, she appeared extremely tense. She did not talk to me or reply to me in the entire session. She sat at the very furthest edge of her seat. She turned her face away, as if I smelled bad. The sheer discomfort her body language expressed was so strong, so sincere, that I caught myself (discreetly) checking my armpits at some point. They smelled (faintly) of Axe (I reminded myself to ask for a refund).

My hands smelled of White Spirit from the time I'd spent yesterday with Muscle Princess (thankfully, otherwise they would be smelling of motor grease).

My clothes smelled of lavender.

My hair smelled of Old Spice.

My shoes smelled of leather.

I smelled _fine_.

I most definitely didn't smell that bad, or I would have gotten this reaction from the other people I had sat next to that day. Were they just being polite?

But what about her? She had the poise of a lady. Even in her current state, she did her best to keep up some dignity. Maybe she was _too_ polite to tolerate it? I was at a loss.

Somewhere inside me, the child who wants to be validated and appreciated and loved was shocked and horrified and wanted to cry, as it usually did when it knew it had messed up big time, but not where, or how.

Everything had been going so swell until then. I had been bonding with new people, having fun; a _great_ start. And then the most _bewitching_ person I had ever met or seen,_ literall_y turned her nose up at me, acting like I was some loathsome _horror _that she couldn't _wait_ to get away from, let alone bear to look at.

While my mind was in turmoil, my body was undergoing a biochemical war of its own. My skin tingled, my hands were sweaty, my breath was shallow, my mouth was dry, and I had butterflies in my stomach. My heart was beating _frighteningly_ fast; a lot of the blood went to my brain, feverishly sorting the hows and the whys and the oh-mys and the what-to-dos and the _dayums_. Not all of it, though. I was in the middle of puberty, and it showed-in the most inconvenient times, as usual. I was quite glad she was actively not-looking in my general direction.

Finally, the bell rang, and she was out and away like she was running from Death itself. As for me, I was reduced to inextricable tarball of conflicted feelings, stirrings, and passions.

Michaela, who had seen the whole tragedy unfold from the seat behind, came to talk to me.

"Don't let the girl get you down, Ben."

"_And the sign said, long haired freaky people-_"

_"-need not apply_. That's right, Ben, she's long-haired freaky people. You shouldn't worry about what she thinks. She may be rich, she may be beautiful, she may have the best grades in the class, but she's still a freaky-dicky loner, and, if she wants to turn her nose up at people from no reason, I say she can stuff it. Quick, get your stuff, we should be out already."

"Micky?" I asked as I got my stuff togehter.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"No biggie. Wait a minute-" Micky got close to me and... took a deep whiff? "Just making sure."

I was unamused. "So?"

"No worse than any dude your age, at any rate."

So early in our friendship, and I was already giving her a long-suffering look.

She snickered. "Nice Martin Freeman impression. Now let's _go,_ or we'll be _late!"_

_Why, perish the thought!_

* * *

Soon thereafter, I found myself walking alone down the corridors.

I had taken a detour at the restroom to make sure there wasn't anything wrong. Who knew, maybe Micky didn't have as good a sense of smell as she liked to think?

Having freshened up insofar as the available facilities allowed, I left for class... and found that I was quite lost. With all doors closed and no-one left to ask, there was only one solution left: the reception.

As I walked towards it, I overheard the most melodious, seductive whisper, reverberating through the empty corridors. It was like... well, nothing as vulgar or thick as, say, hot chocolate. It was more like... hot, smoked tea, served in a large, red clay cup, indoors, a sunny but cold winter afternoon. It was gentle, and graceful, and just a little carcinogenic, in a good way.

"Please sir, there must be a way," the angelic voice pleaded. "I _must_ change groups," I wonder who was this person, that gave the word "soft-spoken" an entire new dimension, "I simply cannot bear to sit next to the new boy."

My heart, which had navigated the storm and thought it was safe at the harbour, _sank. _

I forced myself to turn the corner with a swift gait.

"I'm sorry," the receptionist fumbled, "it doesn't appear to be possible. You're not providing any good reasons that the administration would accept. Was he rude to you? Did he bully you? What's wrong with that kid, that you'd go to such lengths to avoid him? What am I supposed to tell them, that he _smells bad?_"

I tried to Jhonny Walker my way past the scene towards the god-damned exit. She was going to say it. She was going to say it out loud and then the entire school would know me as Benedict "Poop Ratstinker" Swann and my future here would be ruined and I would have to switch schools all over again.

"Don't be silly, he _doesn't_ smell bad," she contested hotly.

_I don't?_

I walked in front of one of those air ducts, which they used as heating. The hot emanations made me feel uncomfortable and dizzy, as usual.

"He-" She stopped talking, and went rigid.

_ Aw crud. She noticed me._

She turned to look at me, and I was paralysed at the look of _hatred_ in her eyes. I actually felt like I was going to die, then and there, such was the killing intent she emanated.

I was past the turbulent torrents of mere fright and gently floating upon a calm lake of utter terror. It was an underground lake, and my last light had just gone out.

I'd love to say I'm being melodramatic, but that was precisely the gist of it.

Then, a mask of composure descended upon her face, and the tension lowered slightly.

"Never mind," she snapped, and she just left, going down the corridor that led furthest away from me.

I fainted.

I genuinely fainted.

My knees gave out under me and I crumbled into a heap, under the alarmed eyes of the poor bureaucrat.

As he shook me from my stupor, a strange feeling overtook me: an immeasurable relief, an overwhelming joy at being alive.

I stopped staring into the horizon, and met the clerk's gaze, an irrepressible smile creeping into my features.

"Boy, what did you ever _do,_ to get this girl to hate you so much?"

In other circumstances, I would have been scandalized at the double standard. I would have explained, at length, that I had been the one who was terrorized out of his wits, that blaming the male every time a girl felt discomfort was unjust, and so on and so forth.

In my joyful numbness, all I could manage was, "Dude, _I have no idea."_

"Also, why do you smell of the school bathroom's bar soap?"


End file.
